Professional Procedure (corrected - more or less)
by Johix
Summary: I tried to correct the grammar - it is not perfect of course, but still better than the 'original' story so if you'd like to read the /Professional procedure/ please read this version - it's for your own good :D


**I'm truly very sorry for any grammatical errors (I know there are some). **

* * *

I was at home, comfortably seated in my armchair with a good book and a hot cocoa.

Sherlock is outdoors – somewhere. Chasing – someone. Sure, I could go with him, but I'm not interested. In addition to that it's half of February, hellish winter, and right now I'm pretty sure I don't want to see any of London snow. But the thing I _do_ want is cocoa.

I eagerly seized the cup and just when I was about to take a draught, the front door swung open. Holmes stood there – all snowy.

"John!" he cried enthusiastically. "I've got it!"

"Yes?" I said absently since I was interested in some gripping passage in the book. "...Who was it then?" I added subsequently, because in his voice there was some of a child's exhilaration that no one likes to spoil. In fact it wasn't only the tone of his voice, it sparkled from all his very self: he was like a small, beaming boy, enthusing about a frog he's just found (except Sherlock's enthusing over dissecting that frog).

And in his answer I could hear that delight perfectly: "His sister."

"Oh. And what have brought you to this conclusion?"

Holmes, evidently pleased by a question focused on his deduction powers, triumphantly replied: "A knitted glow."

I smiled and looked up.

"Sherlock!" I cried, horrified at the sight of my flatmate, "you've got completely purple lips! And you're trembling like a miniature pincher..." I stood up, walked over to him and brushed the snow from his hair, "Go to the bed. I'll make some tea for you."

The detective surprisingly did not protest and humbly walked into his bedroom.

"And take something warm to wear..." I called after him from the kitchen.

**/Sherlock's Bedroom/**

"Here," I said and handed Holmes the cup, "your tea, Detective."

Sherlock pulled his hand from under the duvet. I stayed motionlessly staring at it.

"_Eh. When I said,"_ I began stiffly, "that you should put on something warm... I _definitely_ hadn't meant one of my sweatshirts!"

"But," he muttered grumpily, "I've got nothing of that kind."

I raised my eyebrow in disbelief: "That's not possible..." and opened Sherlock's wardrobe.

Carefully I examined all the shelves: one piece of clothes by one. I had even stood on tiptoes to see the highest shelf... Really: I'd found nothing. Not a single sign of knitting or anything warmth, just the same old shirts. Also one burner, two packs of cigarettes and a small paper bag of dried locusts.

"Okay," I admitted, "you can keep it – for now."

I went back to the bed and gently placed my hand on his forehead. "You're running a temperature," I pronounced the diagnosis, "but the sweater should fix it." And on the point of leaving I added: "I'll come to check you after a while."

"Thank you, Doctor," he said gratefully and pulled the blanket over his head.

* * *

About half an hour passed. I'd read a chapter, drank coco, and was ready to go to look at the patient.

"Well? How are you doing?" I asked sloppily, assuming that I will hear a positive reply. But I got only a fleeting tremble of the duvet. So I went to bed and pulled back the corner of the blanket to see Holmes' face and made sure that he was still alive. He had a very unhealthy colour and was all in a quiver.

"No way," I said firmly. "Take that sweater off."

My flatmate did not object again and slowly, clumsily with shaking fingers he began to undress.

At that moment – at the sight of him – I realized the absurdity and sheer unprofessionalism of my request. "Hold on," I stopped him guiltily "I'll help you..."

"Well, the sweater is off. Now the shirt."

With this sentence the detective put up a slight resistance: "I thought," he said quietly for his today's _outdoor events_had had an impact on the vocal cords, "that I should stay warm. How this is a medical procedure, John?"

"Yes you should, and you're going to," I replied and took off my t-shirt.

"I don't understand," he said aloofly.

"Well," I sighed, fully aware of what impression would my following words give: "I'm gonna lie next to you."

"Okay."

The simplicity and conservative tone of his response made me a little uneasy. I was not sure if he's trying to make an allusion, anyway, my answer was a response to this possibility (because it didn't seem to me that the word 'okay' uttered in this way might indicated something else): "B-but do not take this as a... um... something like–"

"Like what?" Holmes suddenly interrupted my thoughts, "That's an absolutely correct procedure, John. Human warmth is the best if we need to warm up quickly to prevent disease from hypothermia."

"Well..." I started with the intention of clarifying the option of Sherlock's hint, but then it dawned on me, "of course!" he, Sherlock Holmes – the virgin –, he can't perceive it differently, so I nodded calmly: "Sure," pleased by the fact that I didn't have to look for an excuse because of my upcoming action.

"Move a bit," I sat down on the bed, "so I can lie there."

Sherlock rolled over on his side. I got under the duvet and pressed my chest against his back.

"Damn – you're like an icicle," I said and embraced his icy waist.

"I strongly doubt it," Sherlock protested vigorously (excessively to his condition). "I don't think," he continued after a little pause to catch his breath (he was not really well but after all, it would not discourage him from lecturing), "that I am now in a phase of change from liquid state – water (although this fluid fills my body around 80 percent) –, to solid state – ice."

"It's just a phrase, Sherlock."

"Oh," he passed in surprise with that child expression of sudden awareness in his eyes (I could see his inner – completely mechanic – world collapsing), "I see."

We were lying this way for about ten minutes when I felt cold fingers on my wrist.

"John," I heard Holmes' quite voice, "I... I feel better now."

"Good. Should I... stop our..." I was glad that he was no longer shaking so I quipped: "totally heterosexual activity?" yet somehow hoped that we would stay in this position a little bit longer.

"No..." he breathed out into the pillow and drew my hand tightly around his waist.

"We could send a photo to Mycroft," he added with a smirk which had not only confirmed the constant need of mocking with his brother, but also was an evidence of an improvement of Sherlock's state. I smiled, firstable for imagining the elder Holmes' facial expression if he would see such a photograph of me and his beloved brother, and secondable just for myself – great.

After eight minutes later the temperature of our bodies was perfectly balanced, so I could go. But that warmth made me feel really good and I did not want to give it up. Contentedly I rested my forehead against Holmes' shoulder and listened to the slow rhythm of his breath; he fell asleep. And I joined him after a while...

**/Morning/**

When I woke up Sherlock's place on the bed was empty.

"Hm," I thought, "running somewhere again – stupid. This way he develops pneumonia. But Sherlock is Sherlock and he won't be stopped by such a puny trifle like death. I will not take care of him!"

I was halfway out of the bathroom when a voice sounded from the kitchen: "John, how long it will take you? I've surpassed myself and made you a breakfast – yes you can hear well – toast with Rubus Chamaemorus."

Surprised, I stopped. I hadn't noticed he's home.

"That's some kind of a poison?" I asked, anticipating another of the detective's incredible experiments.

"I doubt," he started with his schoolmaster tone, "that the cloudberry is poisonous. Well, only if it's not the real reason why you've got jam made of it in our fridge... Admit it, Doctor: do you store arsenic in your jam jars?"

"Certainly not," I protested and walked into the kitchen.

_"__Ubi virus, ibi virtus__,"_ greeted me my flatmate in sweater which I gave him yesterday, now considerably stretched, wielding a tray with one plate with toasts and two cups of tea.

"_Where is a poison, there is a virtue_... You will not eat?"

"Oh, no John. After yesterday my stomach isn't feeling like receiving any visitors... But I will have the tea."

"Hm," I sighted. "The eating habits of yours, Sherlock, frankly scare me – and I'm not saying it just as your Doctor. You shouldn't go to extremes; to deny a meal just because you don't know how a black blob on a wall of a boarding school in I-do-not-know-where relates to a capital 'e' on a stub of twenty years old letter, is not good for you." I finished, took one toast of the plate and bit into it- "See," I swallowed, looking at my friend, "it's not that hard."

The detective smiled a little and sipped from his cup.

* * *

**/The living room/**

The bell rang: two short and one long ring.

"Mycroft," said Holmes, sitting in the chair opposite to me with his knees under his chin, dispassionately without any signs of movement, suggesting that he would maybe go and open the door.

These toasts were today's apparently maximal expression of his gratitude for the fact I hadn't let him freeze to death last night. I shrugged my shoulders, got up from my chair and walked to the door...

"Morning, Doctor Watson," said the tall man in an expensive suit at the door.

"Morning," I replied.

"Is my brother home?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, you are afraid completely unwarrantedly," he smiled. "I'm here just to give him a short message. Too... personal to be communicated only via text messages which my brother so incomprehensibly indulges. His writing skills – as opposed to spoken word, even if what he says is not always what we want to hear – are not exactly a source of enjoyment. But it must be recognized that he always expresses precisely –" older Holmes made a small pause (well, thanks god Mycroft was above being dramatic), "everything. (...) So, can I come in?"

"Sure," I nodded and motioned to him to enter.

* * *

Mycroft was taken aback for a moment when he saw his 'little' brother in my sweater. He did not comment it on in any verbal way, just merely raised his left eyebrow with a conspiratorial pout and tilted his head.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked curtly.

"I came to tell you," his brother replied coldly, "Caesar is dead,"

"It is very outdate and well-known information," Sherlock countered the same tone.

Elder Holmes rolled his eyes: "_Your_ Caesar, Sherlock."

The detective cocked his head in sudden interest, however, saying: "About time."

"Well," Mycroft sighed and adjusted his cufflink in the left sleeve, "I've come to ask you about the funeral. Thought you'd be interested in the settlement of this matter. After all, you'd been planning it since you two had met."

"Hm..."

I was totally confused by the theme and the style of conversation – mostly as Sherlock is concerned. How can you be planning someone's funeral since your first meeting and now suddenly show no interest? But what am I even talking about?! This whole idea is completely weird! (...) So I asked: "Sorry, who... who is Caesar?"

"A parrot, John. Ara ararauna."

"Oh. Yeah. It makes sense to me now..." I nodded amusedly as I'd understood at once. "So, your pirate companion then?"

Sherlock, who had always liked correcting my remarks or propositions or anything I said, disapprovingly opened his mouth, but stopped before arguing as he realized that my question was also absolutely correct answer to itself, and said only: "Yes."

"He forced that poor animal to recite the entire periodic table of physical elements," remarked the detective's brother ironically.

"_Taught_," Sherlock corrected him.

"_Of course__._"

The undisguised sarcasm in Mycroft's tone amused me, and I'd love to listen the rest of that talk between the two of them, but I promised Sarah I help her to move some wardrobe today.

"I hope," I said, "that you'll excuse me, gentlemen. My presence here is not necessary anyway..."

"The wardrobe?" asked Sherlock when I was putting my jacket on.

"Uh huh."

"Okay. Come back for dinner – we are going out."

"Out?"

"What I mean is I'm taking you to restaurant. As a thank you."

"Aren't you exaggerating it a bit? You've thanked me after all – the toasts. And now a dinner? Some food obsession? Or experiment: after how many of my thanks John puts on five pounds?"

"You were saying I don't eat enough," he abruptly raised his voice. Then, offended, he leaned his chin on his knees and added: "So you should be glad."

"Okay, okay," I shuttered out and give an uncomprehending look to older Holmes, searching for some explanation for the sudden change in his brother's behaviour in his eyes, but they said me nothing – he was looking at me quite as confused as I was looking at him, just with more grace. He was probably used to this Sherlock's manners better than me, but it did not mean he had a clarification.

"I'll be back at six," I said and walked out the door.

* * *

"So," Mycroft Holmes began a conversation which – as it was very, very clear to him – will be short and incomplete from the side of his brother, "why are you wearing your flatmate's sweater?"

"He gave it to me. After he'd founded out that I didn't have anything warm to wear in my closet."

"Yes, that is true," said the older brother, but he still refused to give up his plane: get some information from Sherlock or, at least, make him let slip about the current state of his relationship with John.

Elder Holmes also had some of his brother's skills – as deduction is concerned – but he did not use them so often, and when he did, he did it reluctantly. Nevertheless, today, here at Baker Street, in the flat of the Doctor and the Consulting Detective, would even an utter Anderson/thickhead noticed that something had happened. Something... _unusual_. "And what were the toasts for?" he asked (with intent that I've mentioned).

"For the provision of body heat."

Well, he certainly was not expecting a stunner like this. This could not even be count as a hint, could it?! Oh – but no. No. Do not forget that his brother doesn't practice sexual activity (so far as Mycroft knows) but right now it is not that certain.

Many expressions had taken turns on the face of older Holmes, but eventually he chose the typical stiff features. "May I ask," he said with a direct view at his brother, full of expectations of what would be the answer, "in what context _exactly_Doctor Watson was providing you... the body heat?"

"In my bed," said the younger brother unimpressed.

Mycroft nearly choked on his tea. Really bad idea: drink when waiting a response that – according to you – could be very delicate (apparently, Sherlock's brother wasn't even hoping for that).

"I was hypothermic," said the detective to completely clarify the context.

"Uh-" coughed elder Holmes, "I see. So... um... well, no progress?"

"I wouldn't say that," said Sherlock, "today we're going to dinner."  
"Yes, but he takes it just as a thanks – do not forget on that, brother."

"I have some... plan... in a way."

Mycroft significantly raised an eyebrow: "Okay then. I will be very... pleased if you let me know about the results."

Younger Holmes nodded.

"Now please excuse me, I have to go."

"Sure. But please: you know what you shouldn't do and when, don't you?"

"Hm – no wars or international conflicts when the two of you are out," said the man who occupied a minor position in the British Government, walking to the front door of the apartment and with the intent to leave he gripped the handle.

"And as for Caesar," call the detective (never leaving his armchair) after his brother, "burn him."

"Nothing more?" wondered the elder and walked back into the room. "Nothing like: the full moon, midnight, and with a salvo of cannon?"

Sherlock gave him a chilling look from under his frowning brows: "Get me three tail feathers."

"...And I was beginning to worry that everything would be normal," sneered Mycroft, "See you soon."

"Goodbye!"

* * *

**/In front of a restaurant - after the dinner/**

"I do not think it was inappropriate."

"Well, to say about our waiter he's gay, it wouldn't be the worst," I admitted. "...even you didn't have to shout it out all over the restaurant. However, to point it out to his boss, and as a bonus, tell him that certain waiter goes out with his son, when that young man found himself standing right next to his father, it was _not_ really appropriate. All the more so that of his son's orientation he had no idea and you just _had to_ comment on, saying: _God, look at him! It is absolutely clear_. And now you want me to believe you had no idea and still don't think it could have been inappropriate, therefore, you did it all purely from_the goodness_ of your heart?! Sherlock, how can you not understand this? And if you truly don't understand what _is_ appropriate and what is _not_, at least, do not say anything. Me, Mrs. Hudson, the entire Scotland Yard and now probably everyone in this restaurant, we all know how awesome your skills are, but it really wasn't necessary and even useful."

"I would say there was some benefit. That boy would never tell his father he's gay. And no, John, not because papa would perhaps disown him – he just didn't have the courage. With my action I helped him to get over an important point in his life."

"_Oh_, so from the goodness of your heart after all," I sneered. "Next time, please, let them solve their issues by their own. And by_them_, I mean _everyone_."

Sherlock, in protest against my words, opened his mouth, but I quickly stopped him (I do not want to argue with him about his social awareness; he has got his opinion so do I – they are different, thus it would not make sense to present them endlessly to each other): "Stop it at once... Let's go home; it's starting to snow."

"You go, John. I have to arrange something else," he said and gave me a conspiratorial winkle, which I considered as he was again on to something and did not require my presence there.

I turned my head from the sky, from which the snow was falling, and wanted to ask the detective something, but I saw only a tip of his coat, disappearing around the corner.

"Well," I sighted, "what can I do?" and went home.

* * *

**/221B Baker Street - John's bedroom/**

"Psst, John."

"Ughmm..." I mumbled sleepily out of the bed.

"John,"

"S-Sherlock?" I rubbed my eyes to wake up, but I was so terribly sleepy it did not help. "Um – something's wrong?" I yawned and buried my head into the pillow, "It's 4 in the morning..."

"I know. It's could outside. May I get into your bed?"

"Why?" I murmured. You may ask yourself how could I not immediately spring up and stare at my intruder because of his question and then possibly kick him out of my bedroom. Well, the answer is simple: I hadn't got the energy.

"That man's killed three people already, and if I'll catch a cold and be not able to chase him, this wa–"

"Eh, I don't care. Feel free to get in," I morosely interrupt Sherlock's speech. "Just don't say _anything_ – silence – so I can sleep."

The detective nodded and got to me, pressing his cold back against mine he said quietly: "John, If y–"

"Shush," I hissed at him, hoping I could still fall asleep.

**/Morning/**

I managed to sleep for five more hours and when I woke up I was honestly surprised to find that Sherlock was still in the bed. Looking at him, how he was tranquilly sleeping, I decided not to woke him up. He is an astonishing person – no doubt – but his ability to deny sleep whenever he pleases I did not like indeed, so I was immensely pleased with his current state.

So I cared to not rose Holmes from his slumber that I did not even get up myself, just drew the duvet (which my flatmate was still stealing from me during the night) a little and rested my head on the pillow. _Perhaps I'll fall asleep once more._ I closed my eyes and in that very moment I heard a gentle tone of Sherlock's voice: "Thank you, John."

"You should be thankful." _So he is not sleeping?!_ Actually it was not that astonishing (certainly less than the fact he had stayed in bed). "You know, this bed may be large, but the duvet is made for one."

"You said (!), you don't care," he muttered with a crabby tone, "so –"

"Just teasing you... Everything's all right," I smiled.

Holmes raised his left eyebrow in disbelief, but then he smiled back.

"What time is it?" he asked, completely awoken now.

"Nine."

"Hm, I should go then. You can fully enjoy your duvet," he said and got out of the bed.

I must confess that I couldn't help to not look at Sherlock's bare back and beautifully white-glowing nape, hidden under those messy curls of his dark hair which were all dishevelled in the morning and perfectly contrasted with the snow-white skin. Carefully I watched him: I like how thin he is. (...) I glared at a couple of violet bruises under his right shoulder blade and found myself how I ardently bit my lower lip when he bent down for his jacket.

"Should I bring the milk when I get back?" He turned, and I quickly averted my eyes.

"Well, it depends. Bring it anyway. But if you'll come back at four in the morning again, don't come to my bedroom to present it to me. Just put it in the fridge, okay?

"Sure. And don't worry: cause of these bruises will very soon be behind bars."

"What? But I – um... fine." _Damn. For how long does he know that I've watched him?_

"I have been worse," he laughed. "Fortunately, my bones have adapted and grow together fast."

"Good for you then, I think, to have a Doctor as a flatmate."

"Good think to have you as a flatmate," he replied immediately, but in that very moment he stopped when he realized the possible hidden meaning of this sentence and with words: "I'll bring the milk," he darted out of the room.

* * *

**/Next day/**

"Sherlock?" I called from the kitchen.

"Hmm?"

I was not in the best mood. Holmes had not come at four a.m., but only about two hours longer – with an irrepressible desire to play the violin. I got out from my bed accompanied by the sound of Paganini's Capriccio n°1 and all I wanted was a glass of milk. But from _that one_ in the fridge I could only make a milkshake; "_Why_ is that milk half frozen?!"

"Probably because the last few hours it has been exposed to temperatures lower than the freezing point."

"Eh. And how–?"

"I've bought it around eleven o'clock in the evening, but there was no time to bring it home and so it became a witness to many interesting things from London's underworld... So please, let the milk be recovered in our fridge."

"Well," I sighted, "still better than heads..."

"How is that possible," I said after a moment, when Sherlock was giving himself a break from playing, "that Mrs. Hudson stands for this? I don't think she would be so hard of hearing."

"It's because she likes Paganini. Play her Bruch's Scottish Fantasy: she would be here at the very moment, ripping your strings... _German has no rights to compose anything about Scotland whatsoever!_ She cried out once," he laughed a bit.

I was amused by the idea of how that good woman is breaking detective's Stradivarius into pieces and it slightly improved my mood. "So, how's your most-night-stalking-case going?"

"Done."

"And some other crime act took your mind?"

"Not really. These times are so rushed and people so lazy that I almost wonder why don't they just stay next to the body and wait until the police come to arrest them. It even evolved into such extremes of simplicity that _Lestrade_ managed to reveal, track down and arrest two people without my help... and to top it all: the right ones!"

"You just underestimate him too much."

"_Anderson_ had cracked the main track."

"Oh... I do understand now."

The Detective – mentally so dependent on his work – looked at me sadly: "It seems that I will be at home for some time."

"Your body deserves a little holiday; the bruises, skinned knuckles and a lack of sleep and food make no good to you."

"Pff," he snorted. "Promise me at last that you'll let me smoke."

"_Sherlock_ –"

"Please."

"You know damn good well it's a bad habit."

"And you know, John, that I am a grown man and I can manage."

"Gah, _fine_. Why do you even ask when you're obviously stubborn about this?"

"Yes. Why indeed..."

The detective smiled brightly and asked me if I want him to play Mendelssohn – he probably wanted to reward me for giving him a permission to smoke (more or less). I accepted and sat down into my armchair, listening to Sherlock's thanks with closed eyes.

As he finished I asked: "How long do you play?" It honestly interested me, because he played and even composed very well... not well – excellent. And it is generally known that the violin is one of the most difficult instruments, although it has only four strings.

"Since I was five."

"Hm."

"At first it wasn't so enjoyable, but when I found out how much it gets on Mycroft's nerves, I'd become seriously interested in violin and even develop a certain addiction to it. It is almost unbelievable what you can do with such a few of strings. I know nearly eight playing techniques and each of them has several possible versions... Mycroft_loves_ pizzicato the most – it's when I strum the violin with right hand. Once I had forced him to go with me to Benjamin Britten's Simple Symphony – that was fun. Imagine that there's _even_ a technique when you play by the wooden side of bow. With that certainly came up some poor musician who had no money for strings. However, the sensational thing about violin is Colophonium."

"And that is...?"

"Rosin, also called colophony or Greek pitch. It's a distillation residue from pine resin."

"Oh. What is it for?"

"By its application on the horse hair of bow you increase the frictional resistance... From chemical point of view it's also a lovely thing: basically a mixture of weak organic acids. Some of my first experiments were with it – that's where I got my finger acid burned from," he said, looking at his hand. Then his right mouth corner twitched with a tiny smile indicating that he had remembered something (most likely about his children's experiments) and suddenly his fingers trembled slightly. Holmes, as he could not bear it that his body – unlike his mind – was acting spontaneously, quickly clenched his fist and pulled it back to his side.

Several times I had noticed that his fingers were shaking, but I was not quite sure why. Maybe an idiopathic tremor. Or a –

"I need a cigarette." Aha. So just a withdrawal syndrome.

"Okay," I sighed, "The bookcase. Top shelf. Behind your_Monograph on polyphonic motets of Lassus_."

"Have you read it?" he asked without looking at me, and went to the bookcase.

"No. I don't think I'd be interested."

He reached for the cigarette pack: "Pity. I think I've quite succeeded."

"Sherlock, I doubt I could change my mind. It is certainly good that you are busying yourself with other things than corpses and chemicals, but to me a book about musician from 16th century is not interesting at all. And it doesn't matter how much you've succeeded with it or not." I didn't want my answer to sound rude, but I had managed the exact opposite. The flatmate turned back at me with hurt look.

_Oh god, I know it was my fault now, but I hope he does not expect me to read that thing?!_ With my field and hobbies it had nothing to do and I doubt I would even understand it when I realized how Sherlock expressed and wrote about certain things – musical terminology is totally unknown to me.

"You also do not read my notes about your cases. They're very... _embellished_? With _stupid titles_? Or how do _you_ say it?"

"I do read all of your notes," the detective said coldly.

"Really?" I wondered hopefully. "But I've thought..."

"I read it," he continued still with the same tone, "because they are written by you."

"Oh," I paused in surprise. "Um... thanks then." (...) "Damn," I added after a while of pure silence, "how is it possible that _you_ know how to make person feel guilty? – Now I'll have to read it..."

Sherlock removed a cigarette from the packet and put it in his mouth. "You don't have to," he smiled gently.

Oh, I was grateful: "Thanks. But please, could you smoke outside?"

"Of course," he answered. Put on his coat and left.

Once he was gone I got up and walked boldly to the bookcase, looking straight at the mentioned monograph. "No, I can't, not even if I want to," I thought resignedly and walked to the window. Outside I saw a dark figure of Holmes, leaning back against a street light as he was blowing small puffs of cigarette smoke out off his weary lungs. I know it's bad for him but if I was an artist I would just seized my sketchbook immediately.

I stepped closer, drew aside the curtain to get a better view and kept watching my flatmate as I had nothing else to do.

Holmes finished his cigarette after a while and I thought he would go back, but he pull out and lit another one. _No way!_ I almost cried out. Until today, he could perfectly manage with only nicotine patches and now he was about to smoke the entire pack just like that? From such a sudden intake of nicotine he could have a poisoning...

Well, yeah, but: call after him from the window I could not, it would be too loud for first and for second (and more importantly) there would be no doubt that I was watching him. So what – ha! Mobile! I took my phone and wrote a message: _The packet will be the only one for you when you are at home. You won't get more. And I'm telling you as your Doctor._

In no time there came a response: _Ah, so as my Doctor? And shouldn't be by any chance the Doctor doing something more useful than watching the unemployed Detective how he's smoking his cigarettes?_At this one I naturally did not answer...

Suddenly I heard footsteps on the stairs – Sherlock. I quickly jumped away from the window, grabbed the first book which was nearer to my hand and sat down in my armchair with it, pretending I was there all the time.

"_Habit is habit and not to be flung out of the window by any man_," the detective's voice sounded from hallway, "_but coaxed downstairs a step at a time_... You know who said it?"

"Mark Twain, I guess."

"Good for you, John," he praised me and came closer to my seat. Then he bent over from behind and muttered: "Hmm... so when you'll go hunting?"

"What?" _Where did he get this idea?_

"Forest animals, page 73: How to track and hunt a deer."

"_What_?"

"The book, John."

"Eh-"

"Or perhaps you want to tell me that once I pointed out I know you're watching me through the window, you grabbed the first book which came your way and began to pretend that you were reading it the whole time I was out?"

"I... it's because-" I awkwardly began to form an excuse, but Sherlock raised his eyebrows in disapproval. "John," he said calmly, "from the two of us you are not the one who knows how to lie well."

I pursed my lips and humbly went to give that bloody book back in its place.

Even though I could raise a lot of objections about the fact that I maybe can't lie, but Sherlock can not unravel the complexity of human relationships and_that_ is, I think, much worse. Not that he was completely isolated from the manifestations of humanity (in this respect my company was very helpful to him), but sometimes I really wondered what all was this mechanical creature not able to understand.

On the other hand, there were some moments when he showed so much politeness that I had absolutely no idea where it came from. And then it awaked in me the feeling that under his gray, logical mask was a genuinely quite normal, sincerely beating human heart. Although with that 'normal' I had not overdo it... The main thing, however, was that Sherlock Holmes was more human than he seemed to be at first sight. And that he was fully aware of the meaning of certain things. Probably just did not want the others to know about it, for what – in my opinion – he had no cogent reason.

* * *

I put the book to its place and when I turned back the Detective was standing right behind me. Before I could say anything he reached out his hand, looming over me, and took another book from the top shelf.

"Here," he said without stepping away, "try this."

"_Lies and half-thrust in human communication_," I read the title. "And you-" my voice cracked a little when I realized how close together we were standing. I cleared my throat. "You've read it?"

"Eww, no," he smirked and shook his head, "It was a _present_ from Mycroft."

"Hm. And have you ever read anything about sociology? I think you need it."

"Well, something definitely: Comte, Weber, Spencer and a few others..."

"Right. But I'm not sure that Weber's ideal type or Spencer's comparison of society to a biological organism would be somehow useful. They are already dead for like 150 years at least and I'm afraid that the general view of society and human behaviour has changed nowadays."

"It doesn't really matter anyway... Every _social_ theory eventually fails me."

"Really? Why's that?"

"For instance," he said in a low voice, leaning to my ear, "I assumed that when I gave you this book we would kiss. But nothing's happened. Don't know why."

"Maybe," I said quietly, "because you haven't done this," and stretching out my neck I pressed my lips to his.

The world stopped, and everything I had known in that moment was Sherlock; the most beautiful, unbelievable creature – with white skin and silver eyes which were staring at me, making me felt like I was the only possible point for them to look at – right in front of me. It was amazing – utterly.

I would not even think that those statuesque lips of his would be so soft, pliable and tender.

Sherlock did not flinch in any way. He grasped me around the waist and pulled me closer to him. Incited by his touch and overpowered by those splendid lips I flung my arms around his neck and buried the left hand in his curly hair.

He was apparently flattered by my interest and to show me that he had more to offer, his tongue started its delicate way into my yearning mouth. Desperate I was to touch him, to feel him, to take more and everything of him until we dissolve in each other, and he knew it well. The long, thin white fingers were leaving a burning path on my skin, quivering from their touch as he slipped his hand under my tee shirt.

Stepping backwards a little to lean my back against the bookcase and made our position more stabile Sherlock gently pressed himself to me, kissing and softly biting my lower lip while he was catching every little gasp from my mouth.

"_Sherlock_," a little desirous moan escaped from my mouth into his lips as I slid my hands down at that gorgeous arse. Then he embraced me even tightly and broke the kiss to let me draw some air into my lungs, which I so urgently needed. But breathing was still not that simple because of the breathtaking caress of Sherlock's tongue, running up and down my neck, which was driving me mad and making me gasping for much more._ Oh god_, wasn't this a dream?

"S-see now?" I breathed out, afraid of losing my mind if Sherlock would be continuing. "Every theory... _nghh_... has its – its practical side which you have to... fulfil."

"Yes," he slightly pulled away and cleaned his throat, "absolutely."

"_Clink- clink,_" a ring came from my pocket.

"Shit," I sighted, and with no pleasure drew away from Sherlock, fishing out my phone. "I have to go."

"_Now?_" he complained disappointedly.

"Now. Work, Sherlock."

"Do not go there," he protested and grabbing my arm.

"No," I slipped out of his grip, "I have to."

* * *

**/John's office/**

"John?" (...) "John, hey."

"Huh?" I woke up from my thoughts as somebody's hand waved in front of my face.

"Sarah," I realized who was standing in front of me. "Is something wrong? I thought... no one's in the waiting room – or yes?"

"One lady came in about ten minutes ago."

"Oh, sure. Sorry. I've just been a little..."

"Reflecting?" she smiled.

"Yes."

"Never mind, ten minutes is not a long time – also I haven't come to you because of it. I only wanted to tell you that I'm leaving earlier today."

"Aha. Right. So, bye for now."

"See you, John. And do not let Sherlock Holmes fill your whole head – there are patients."

"B-but... how?" I wondered.

"You always look the same when you think of him," she smiled mischievously. "Like a puppy."

"That's how I definitely do_not_ look like!"

"Just don't bite me, puppy," Sarah laughed and walked out of the office...

"She is right, you know," a calm, pleasant voice sounded.

"What?" I looked up from the table: in the doorway there stood a tall, elegant woman with white hair piled into a bun.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Hello. You must be the lady from the waiting room."

"A patient, yes."

"Sure. Of course. Please, do sit down... Sorry, you said something before?"

"Merely your colleague is right: you do look like a pup – a bit."

"Wow, if you've heard that you're obviously not going deaf, so what's troubling you?"

"To be honest," the lady looked at me, "nothing anymore," she told, rising from her seat. "But please, Doctor Watson, take care of him. And be forgiving. He has a... different heart."

"I – who...?" but before I could say anything meaningful for myself, the lady was already gone.

On the way home I was thinking – a lot. About Sherlock. About me. About what his look does to me, his touch, kiss... and what it might do to him. About us. About everything. I know what lust is and I know what love is. But with Sherlock these two things merge into one. And I do not know if that is right. If he even... God, what if it was only some _departure_ of his, a play, an experiment? The lady in my office today was right: if Sherlock Holmes has a heart – and I am sure he has – then it is different...

* * *

**/221B Baker Street/**

"This afternoon," said I, hanging my jacket on a peg, "your mother came to my office... At least, I think it was her." (...) I walked into the living room and saw not one (as I expected), but two Holmes' – brothers – sitting in armchairs.

The faces of both men turned into stone (stiffened they already had been – as always, when the two of them were talking with each other). Older Holmes looked at me in amazement, and then turned back to Sherlock, who was piercing him with icy eyes from frowning brows.

_"That is your job?"_ he growled.

"Not this time, Sherlock," the brother protested and honestly shook his head.

_"What was she doing in John's office, Mycroft?"_

"I have absolutely no idea."

"_Oh_, so you won't mind if I send her to Lestrade's office?"

Mycroft Holmes significantly raised his left eyebrow to this comment and pursed his lips disapprovingly. "I did tell _nothing_ to mummy."

"Undoubtedly."

"To yours _amazing _abilities... after all, belongs to tell when I'm lying. You _know_ I'm telling the truth."

"Yes. Verity. But then... How is it possible that..." Sherlock sharply turned to me: "What did she say to you, John?"

"Nothing. Just... to watch over you. She's probably afraid you're pushing yourself to the limit – and you _do_ that, but nothing can stop you evidently... So, really nothing."

"A-ha. Nothing."

"I guess she just wanted to find out who her son lives with. That is perfectly fine to me. Although she did not introduce herself..."

"Maybe. It is a quite acceptable idea, isn't it?" Sherlock smirked and I knew that my explanation had not satisfied him.

"Like once, when she went to meet Victor's parents..." said Mycroft to his younger brother.

"Oh, yes. I guess so."

"Victor?" I asked because I had never heard of any Victor in connection with Sherlock.

"My friend. From college," answered Holmes, and for this Mycroft titled his head towards the skull on mantelpiece.

"_Eh,_" I uttered out when I realized what he was suggesting, "I had no idea."

Sherlock looked at me stiffly and raised his eyebrows "Problem?"

"Well... no. Just – I don't know. Probably not. (...) Poor Viktor, didn't anticipate he would have to listen to your deductions after his death," I laughed.

"He does not complain."

Older Holmes smiled in his chair slightly.

"Well," he stood up "time for me to go. John. Sherlock. Those Caesar's tail feathers are on your kitchen table."

* * *

The door clicked shut and we were once again alone in our small apartment on Baker Street.

Before I could somehow started about what happened some hours ago, Sherlock began first.

"John," he said with calm, low voice, "what happened this morning, it was... I mean... I am sorry. It will never happen again."

There was a knot in my stomach as he said that. _What?_I only stood there and stared blankly at him. At man who had made me think – _really_think – about my feelings and about that I finally found someone with who I would be... happy and... alive. Because he's someone who awakes in me the lust for life, who worth for all the suffer and pain because he's able to make it up with only one glance, one touch, with only one utterance of my name... It was Sherlock – nobody else. And now this man was saying, saying that... _God, what he's actually saying?!_

"It was a moment of weakness. Sorry, I just somehow lost my self control and pulled you into it. It is clear to me that you... don't want... you know. How you said you have to go to work – it was perfectly clear."

"_Sherlock,_" I said with trembling voice, "you're really idiot."

"What?"

"_Massive_ idiot. You heard me well."

"But I-"

"_A moment of weakness?_ What the hell is that?! You want to tell me that... that you were not serious about it?" I shouted at him and embarrassed looked down at my feet.

The Detective got up and slowly approached me. My heart started to pound faster as he was suddenly close to me and I could smell that the nicotine patches were not enough for him today.

"I was," he said quietly, "More than anything."

I straighten up and looked directly into those cat eyes (now full of sincerity) "Then shut up, and kiss me already."

The eyes sparkled and the only thing I perceived in that moment was how his head carefully leaned in. Again I felt those lips and knew I would _never_ give up on them...

It was soft, delicate and gentle... no biting, no tongs, only the most tender taction you can possibly imagine – and yet, there was everything in it.

A single look into my eyes.

A single touch of palm on my cheek.

A single word drowning in a hot breath on my mouth "_John..._"

* * *

John placed his hand on Sherlock's chest and another on his shoulder. Then whispered into Holmes's very ear: "I want you, Sherlock. I want to kiss you and touch you as no one ever did. Feel your gorgeous body beneath mine. I want to hear you moaning and gasping my name while I'm slowly fucking you till we both drown in pleasure... oh god, _Sherlock_, let's spend tonight together."

The way he spoke sent shivers down Sherlock's spine. "I..." breathed the detective, (he, of course, wanted all those things and he wanted them now! but there was no time for them at this moment – he had to do something first) "I can't."

Watson opened his mouth and wanted to say something, but Sherlock continued: "It is _not_ that I don't want to. I want. _God_, I do! But I must be somewhere else this night."

"Why?" the doctor wondered.

"A case," explained Sherlock and went on with secret rapture in his voice "It's an important thing, John. Lestrade is absolutely at his wit's end – as always – and I think... I _know_, that_ this_ night it will b–"

John sighted "You're really interested in this one, aren't you?"

"Yes."

The doctor smiled at his keen flatmate: "Then go..."

Sherlock's silver eyes became full of fondness as he looked at his brave little soldier: "Thank you, John! I'll be back soon. Then we can..."

"Yes. Off you go."

A flash of black coat and blue scarf and Sherlock Holmes – The Consulting Detective – was gone.

John smiled for himself "It seems I am gay at last – although men have never attracted me... But I guess that Sherlock is completely different case after all."

. . .

Sherlock's case went good – as he was expecting – and soon it was over. The detective was walking home. Quarter past twelve. Pall Mall. "Hm, I could make a visit," he thought.

. . .

"Good _evening_, Sherlock."

"Evening, Mycroft," grinned Holmes with pleasure of disturbing his brother at such a late hour.

"I suppose that it is not necessary to ask you why you are here, and at this time, because it evidently has to do with your flatmate," said the older brother and took a speck from Sherlock's jacket (a small piece of lint from John's sweater).

"Yes. You're right."

"I would say so."

"May I come in – unless you've got _Gregory_ there? I think that's his hat on the coat-stand."

"He forgot it here."

"About two hours ago?"

Mycroft nodded.

"You've landed him your umbrella I assume."

"I did."

"He went out to that rain without his hat, didn't even notice it's raining and when he got back to take it you gave him your umbrella. He took it with gratitude, and as he was so surprised by your mercy he stumbled over the coat-stand (a tinny splinter from it is lying on the floor) where he did forget it. Maybe it's because that new shoes he's got... The muddy footprints are all over your hall; I wouldn't expect you are that indolent to not wipe. Is he always so absent-minded when he's leaving?"

"Come in..."

"So," said the older Holmes and seated himself in a costly armchair, "how is it going with your _short friend_?"

"Good."

Mycroft Holmes raised his left eyebrow and used a sly tone of his voice "Just _good_?"

"Very good I must say."

"Hm, so my little brother gets a _Doctor_. Isn't it great? Mummy will be immensely proud."

"Ha-ha." The irony in Sherlock's voice was absolute. "Like a Detective Inspector should be some kind of triumph."

Face of the older brother stiffened and with cold tone he said "I love him and he loves me. That's everything I want to know."

"So do I."

"Does it mean John's told you he loves you?"

Sherlock made a tinny smile "No."

"But then I do not understand why–"

"He said he wants me."

"Oh." The older brother stood up from his seat. "Wait, I need a cake for this..."

"...And," continued Sherlock as Mycroft got back with chocolate dessert, "I want him."

"Hm, I see..." Mycroft Holmes paused in thought and took a bit of whipped cream by his fork. "Then what are you doing here, Sherlock? Shouldn't you be with him right now?"

"Most likely: yes, I should. I should be with John. I just... you know... just wanted to... um... tell you and... you know."

"What a lovely speech."

The elegant man, in an expensive suit, rose from his seat and approached the young detective sitting in another armchair.

"I know," he said amiably, laying his right hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and continuing fatherly "as your older brother I give you my approval; Doctor John Watson is a good man – maybe you don't even deserve him, but it does not seem he's aware of it, so... _here_ – _you_ – _go_. (...) I hope that I do not have to discuss sex with you?"

"No. Heaven forbid! (...) But – thank you, Mycroft."

"You're welcome. Now go."

* * *

**/ Back to Baker Street – 2:25 a.m. /**

It took a while when Sherlock finally got back to the flat (even he had promised to John he would be back soon). You know, he is strange, remarkable, peculiar, extraordinary, and an amazing person, but still, even though he is scientist (and when scientists are interested in something, or just want to – or _need_ to – know about something that caught their attention, they know nearly everything about it, and so did Mr. Holmes) he is a virgin too, and so he needed a while for organized his thoughts (by sauntering slowly up and down the streets in cold, foggy night). It was therefore quite clear that he knew _sex_... as for its theoretical aspects, but what about the practical side? Well...

He took of his coat, the scarf, and on the way up to John's bedroom his jacket, trousers and that fantastic purple shirt which he carefully laid on the only chair in the room as he was there at once.

Then he slowly, carefully to not wake up his flatmate, got into the bed.

"You're late," a drowsy voice came from pillows.

"I thought you're sleeping."

"I am."

A gentle smile appeared on Sherlock's mouth and he snuggled up to John "I'm sorry."

"You should be," mumbled Watson. "I'm too sleepy now for have _something _with you. And especially when you're cold like the Snow Queen. You know, it's not necessary to bring your temperature below 36 degrees every time you want to be in bed with me. So just... yhawwn – umm... just hold me and hope that my normothermia will be enough for us both."

"Okay," consented Sherlock and put his arms around John, softly whispering into his ear "You know the morning sex, after all, is the best. For one is rested and fresh and–"

"Sherrrlooock. I know – I approve. But it won't work if you won't let me sleep now. Okay?"

"Fine."

**/The very next morning/**

John woke up earlier then Sherlock, with a pleasant feeling of warmth and happiness caused by that fantastic creature lying by his side. He looked at Sherlock in all his splendour as he was resting in John's bed with his eyes – those magnificent eyes which only now, when he was sleeping, could take a break from unremitting observation of everything – shout, and with dark messy hair beautifully setting off the cheekbones covered with pale leather.

_Just like Snow White_ thought the doctor and with smile upon his face he went down to the bathroom.

Brushing his teeth Watson glanced in the mirror and saw Sherlock's reflection; the detective stood there with fixed gaze on him.

"S–hit," John nearly chocked himself on the toothpaste foam, "I didn't hear you come (!) You're like a cat..." He rinsed his mouth and continued, "What are you even staring at? You've seen me brush my teeth before."

"I was just thinking," said Holmes, walked over to the washbasin and squeezed some toothpaste on his yellow toothbrush, "about how would it be to have sex with you here in the bathroom... on the washer, maybe?"

John burst out laughing: "That would be slightly dangerous, don't you think?"

"For the washer, yes," answered Sherlock and started to wash his teeth.

"Besides," said John, approaching his flatmate, "I think that bedroom is better. It's comfy and an accurate place for the first time," and from behind he put his arms around Sherlock's middle.

"I guess so," agreed the detective and finished his teeth cleaning.

. . .

The way out the bathroom could be compare to a process in a small room full of legs and arms, falling clothes, overheated flesh and lips and hands – all with insatiable desire for touching each other.

"John... _nnnh_... not – not so fast," gasped Sherlock as they were finally in his bedroom on his very bed and John's hand was already doing its business down in Sherlock's pants.

The Doctor breathed out and unwillingly slackened his pace. "Okay..." he sighted and started to only stroke Sherlock's thigh with his right hand, feeling his body tensing in increasingly growing lust. "You know it's not that easy when you are so gorgeous, gasping and laying under me."

"Hah," sneered the detective with his voice quavering. "I see..."

"So what happens," Sherlock suddenly made his voice steady, "if I do _this_?" And after these words he grabbed John's arms and with lighting speed changed their positions. Then he gave his soldier a provocative smirk. John looked up at him in a pure amazement, trying to ignore the fact in his mind that he was successfully turned on by Sherlock's strength and his cheeky smile. "And you call yourself a virgin?"

Instead of answer the detective bended down and kissed his blogger with passion, showing him that even he _w__as _a virgin it made no disadvantage for him, and as a bonus he supplemented the kiss with one smooth movement on John's lap which made Watson to be the one who gasped this time.

"Would you mind," Sherlock mumbled into his flatmate's neck base, "If I'll be on top?" and started to lick and suck John's longing skin while the doctor's hands were running up and down his back, stopping only for ruffle Sherlock's hair or grab at his fantastic arse.

"Not – in – the – least," purred John with eyes closed, stretching his neck backwards to give Sherlock more space and feel the awesome fondling of his tongue.

The detective continued in his activity and started to accompany it with regular back and forth motion, rubbing his hardened cock against John's, which resulted in muted moans and hot-breathed groans from they both.

"_Sherlock_," a whine escaped John's lips, "take those stupid pants off!" It was nearly beyond John's limit and enough for him to come, but that would not be so interesting – he wanted more. He wanted Sherlock inside of him. And he wanted it as soon as possible!

"So impatient..."

"_Please,_" John bucked upwards in eagerness, "fuck me already."

The detective pressed his lips to John's "All right then..."

Their bodies merged into one and the world was consisted only of increasing pace of thrusts assuaging the burning flesh. It seemed like the room was filled with only a hot breath and pair of names uttered softly by two men who waited for this their whole lives.

"_J-John_," gasped Sherlock into his flatmate's year, "I'm... close..."

"_Ahh_..." Watson bit his lower lip and slightly arched his back under Sherlock's agonizingly beautiful, muscular body, which seemed to be made for someone to touch it (for John to touch it), as he made the thrusts harder, "Me too..."

With each passing move, with every breath, every hot kiss, they felt they cannot stand it for long. All John's muscles were shouting: Sherlock Holmes, and all Sherlock's: John Watson. And after the briefest moment they both reached their climax.

* * *

We fell back on the sheets and I rolled on my belly.

"Perhaps," Sherlock breathed out and placed his hand on my back, drawing circles across my spine with his long skilful fingers, "we would need a shower."

"Uh-huh," I concurred and at the thought of myself with Holmes in shower, I addend: „And maybe another one after it."

A foxy smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I have nothing against it," he replied with certain overtone in voice and with his hand went down to the base of my spine.

"Listen," I smirked, "that is not quite typical expression of someone who was a virgin ten minutes ago."

"And that's it, John: _was (!)_"

"O-ho, so it means... what?"

"That you should watch your back. And I mean it literally."

I laughed: "Oh no, Sherlock. Not me. You should..." and kissed that massive idiot whom I maybe loved ironically just for who he was.

And he was my idiot...


End file.
